


Mr. A. Fell of London

by yogurtgun



Category: Gentleman Jack (TV), Good Omens (TV)
Genre: F/F, M/M, Shibden Hall, and miracles, featuring: a bible, set 20 years before the break-up in St. James, that f/f m/m solidarity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 13:32:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19791889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yogurtgun/pseuds/yogurtgun
Summary: By now, Ann had learned some things of the book: it was a bible, it was bound some four centuries ago, and it had a beautiful if slightly tarnished gilding on the leather covers. It had been in Crow Nest for most of her life, lying unopened, and she might have completely overlooked it for the rest of her life had a letter of inquiry not come to her doors.Mr. Fell, as usual, wishes to buy a book, and Miss Lister, as usual, is suspicious.





	Mr. A. Fell of London

Good weather didn’t wish to go away. Though winter was nearing in a crude, determined pace, the lower temperatures, just like the rains and frost, the slew of blue and grey Ann associated with the turn of the seasons in Crow Nest, were kept at bay by optimistically warm sunshine.

The yellow facade of her house and the white bannisters lost their charm when faced with the dreariness of naked trees, white lawns and sky swaddled in grey, so she was rather content with the unforeseen turn of events. James had called it a minor miracle.

She reminded herself she ought to return to have tea with her aunt and cousins two days from now, but today was reserved only for Anne and for Shibden Hall, where she spent more time these days than anywhere else.

In a rare show of tranquility, Anne’s energies were focused on leafing through a book she had previously examined from page to page as though she might discover a certain secret about it’s make and origin, or at least anything more than the bookstore owners had told her.

By now, Ann had learned some things of the book: it was a bible, it was bound some four centuries ago, and it had a beautiful if slightly tarnished gilding on the leather covers. It had been in Crow Nest for most of her life, lying unopened, and she might have completely overlooked it for the rest of her life had a letter of inquiry not come to her doors.

“There has to be something peculiar about it to cause the gentleman to wishes to buy it so ardently,” Anne said, not for the first time that day but it was more of a mutter than her usual demonstrative tone.

Both of them knew that outside of bringing a knife to it’s binding and seeing if there were jewels hidden in its spine, the truth remained this: it was a regular and old bible.

Amused, Ann drank her cooling tea, and instead focused on the letter. It was two weeks old by now, and the beautiful curling script still amazed her.

Anne finally gave up and laid the book down on the table with a thump. “I suppose we’ll just have to see when the gentleman comes around. What was his name again?”

“Mr. A. Fell of the London’s bookstore ‘A. Fell & Co’. Perhaps it has a sentimental value,” Ann offered.

Anne huffed, leaning back into the chair with her usual bout showmanship. “I know book collectors. They’re vicious, excitable beasts that do not ask the price for rare editions.” Taking a sip of her tea, Anne frowned, and ordered a fresh pot. “When did he say he was arriving?”

“There was a letter two days ago from Birmingham.”

“It doesn’t seem reasonable to travel all the way from London to Halifax for a book is it?”

Just then, Ann heard the unmistakable noise of clacking hooves, squeaking carriage wheels, and groaning of carriage doors. There was a knock on the doors. She could hear Joseph’s harried step, and then a murmur of voices before Joseph’s voice cut through with a practices, “Yes of course. Follow me, please.”

Anne gave her a look across the table, one of her amused quirks of brows, before her face smoothed out into unlikely indifference.

“Ma’am,” said Joseph once he entered the parlor, “Mr. A. Fell, and his companion, for you.”

“Certainly,” Anne said, standing.

Joseph left and Ann sat observing the guests. Mr. A. Fell wasn’t as she’d imagined him. She hadn’t seen many bookstore owners, but she’d always thought they’d be older greying men with thin reading-glasses, always looking a little lost, with thin fingers and smudges of ink on their cuffs, always wafting around the musk of their books around with them.

The man that shook hands with Anne was neither of those things. He looked to be in his thirties, old true, but he wore it with such confidence and inexplicable kindness that his face was only creased with laughing lines. In fact, he had a rather fashionable beige and blue suit that fit particularly well his shock of white-blond hair and intense pale eyes.

“Miss Walker,” he said in sing-songy voice, a smile forming a perfect half-moon of his eyes. He kissed her hand with a flourish.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Fell,” she said, to be polite.

“And you, Miss Walker,” Fell said straightening up. “May I present to you my friend, Mr. Crowley.”

Ann blinked and only then noticed a firm black line standing next to Mr. Fell. A black line that juxtaposed the roundness and softness of Mr. Fell, almost completely, and that straight line had flaming red hair, and was wearing darkened spectacles.

“Please, sit,” Anne said, walking them to the couches and, more importantly, liquor. “I hope good weather followed you north?”

“Oh indeed. A real miracle,” Mr. Fell said conversationally. He took a seat next to Mr. Crowley, folding himself neatly where Mr. Crowley leaned forward on his cane that was still in his hands, a men’s hat hanging from his fingers.

“Could I offer you tea? Perhaps brandy?”

Mr. Fell didn’t even look at his companion when he said, “A spot of brandy certainly, if you would be so kind.”

After the men were appeased, Anne sat next to her and said, “Will you be staying in Halifax for long?”

“Not likely,” Mr. Crowley said in a hiss that was quickly appeased by Mr. Fell’s, “We’re actually on a somewhat tight schedule. I have some business in Edinburgh you see.”

“And you Mr. Crowley,” Ann said. “Are you a bookshop keeper as well?”

There was a baffled look on the man’s face for a moment. Then he said, “No, Miss Walker. And I do hope I do not present myself as one.”

Certainly, though in mourning black, Mr. Crowley was dressed to the nines in a rather fashionable overcoat and beautiful leather boots.

Mr. Fell turned to his companion and clicked his tongue. “My dear boy,” he said in a way that a mother might chastise her child. “I do hope that wasn’t a slight to my profession.”

“Not to the profession, certainly,” the man replied, a lazy grin spread over his face. It was quite snake-like.

Ann gave a quick look to Anne, who returned it, her eyebrows twitching. All too suddenly, Ann was aware that perhaps, they were in the company of two men who were somewhat just like them.

“So what do you do, Mr. Crowley?” Anne interjected.

“I’m an industrialist,” Mr. Crowley replied succinctly. He did not seem to want to elaborate which only told Ann that he was either particularly good, as his clothes would justify, or particularly new to the business.

Anne, however, did not back down. “Marvelous,” she said, and went on a tirade about London. Meanwhile, Ann could not help but look at Mr. Fell, who followed Anne’s words with a little lost nod here and there, and who, after a bit, gave her a little look as if to say, I have no idea what was being said, but I do hope I’m being polite.

Ann could relate.

“We heard,” Ann starts in a somewhat lower register as to not disturb the other two, “about what happened in London. Those two men. Being hanged.”

“Oh dreadful business, madam,” Mr. Fell sighed, a frown creasing his brow. “I’m only afraid of it growing more rampant. Religious zealotry is so...embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?” Ann asks, both intrigued and amused.

The smile must be evident in her tone of voice because Mr. Fell continues, “Well, madam, to be quite frank with you, neither Heaven nor Hell much care about the going-ons within one’s bedchamber.”

“But. In the Bible--”

“Oh dear. A terrible mistranslation on our part. Leviticus actually refers to men laying with boys. Pedophilia, as it were. So you see, the only moral “rules” being broken are the one humans made up.”

“Are you quite knowledgeable on the contents of the Bible, Mr. Fell?” Anne asked, voice cutting through the air.

“I should home so, madam,” Mr. Fell replied. He seemed to be holding back from saying more.

“On the topic of the bible--” Mr. Crowley started.

“Yes,” Ann said, standing up. She brought the Bible back and laid it on the table between them.

“I must ask, what’s so particular about this bible that you wish to buy it?”

“It has an addition,” Mr. Fell said. He sat on the edge of the seat and asked, “May I?”

Ann nodded and he flipped through it until he pointed to a passage where an angel named Aziraphale had, it seemed, lost a flaming sword.

Mr. Crowley found this incredibly amusing.

“I take it this is not church approved canon?”

“Oh no, this is perhaps the only Bible which contains this addition. I had rather thought it lost to time. Dreaded someone had found out and burned it.”

Ann didn’t see how someone thought burning books was a favourable past-time, but she also didn’t see the necessity in hanging people for their choice of bed-partners.

“Very well. Name your price, we would be very glad for you to have it, Mr. Fell.”

Agreeing on the price took only a handful of moments. It seemed Mr. Fell did not care for it. So it was even more surprising when it wasn’t Mr. Fell but Mr. Crowley who in the end summoned the money from his breast pocket and paid. Ann could see the softness in Mr. Fell’s expression and knew that her instincts on the issue were correct.

“Would you like to stay for lunch?” Anne offered in a rare show of hospitality.

“Oh no, we mustn't, madam. There’s a long way to Edinburgh and longer still to Glasgow.”

They stood and shook hands. In front of the house, their carriage stood, black but gilded, and two large black horses that looked as if they could eat someone.

It all looked incredibly expensive and incredibly new.

Mr. Crowley entered the carriage that obscured his black-clad form. Ann noted the curtains were drawn and blocked out any light coming from the large windows.

Mr. Fell said goodbye, but seemed to take too much time, at least according to Mr. Crowley, who gave him only a handful of moments before hissing, “Come on angel, get in.”

A single black-gloved hand reached out from the darkness.

“Well, I must say,” Mr. Fell huffed, but looked far too amused to be crossed. “If you’re ever in London do say hello. I would love to have you both.”

He took Mr. Crowley’s hand and entered the coach which closed behind him. Then the horses started moving, and the carriage was a speck in the distance.

Before they entered back into Shibden Hall, Anne turned to her and said, “Did you see a driver on that coach?”

“No,” Ann said. She’d been far too occupied looking at the two men, so clearly fond of each other that, for an hour on a Tuesday, she felt not so entirely alone in the world.


End file.
